THAT WHICH GOES UNSAID...

At the end of the disaster that swept Our streets with the twilight And seeped into our hearts  Like the moonbeams, What remained was a patch of purple On my dress. It was not your purple... It was of a mindful kid who drew blossoms of lavender on everything On my copies, my walls My dress. Yet why does a purple patch  Like the twilight And the disasters  Remind me of  times  That never were.

In smoky alley a knife of sunlight pierced the colourful tarpaulins. Falling slant .. For a few minutes, till The sun is eclipsed or Goes marauding across latitudes. For that brief moment, It lighted his hair And her eyes.